The Haunting of the Gemini

by Jackie Barrett

  Suddenly the train stopped, and I honestly thought it was preparing for a roller-coaster drop into hell. I looked around frantically and saw through the windows that an opening had appeared in the tunnel, and out of it rolled an old wooden wheelchair. Leather-strap restraints hung off the arms and swung wildly as it turned toward me. Its wheels squeaked as it rolled closer.

  It looked like a torture device, something used to imprison poor, crazy people. It terrified me. I stumbled back from the window and fell. The radio man gathered his meager belongings and knelt next to me.

  “Well, Jackie, this is my stop. This is where I belong,” he said. “You can’t run. There’s nowhere to hide. You are going to have to face this one.” He stood. “It’s been real nice seeing you, Jackie.”

  He turned and walked right through the door. Now I could see the bullet hole in the back of his head. The others followed him. I sat on the floor and watched soul after soul pass through the train door and walk into the tunnel. The radio man slowly turned and waved at me. “Don’t stray from the path or you won’t be able to come back. Stay on that line.”

  I dropped my head onto my knees and sobbed. Who could I turn to? Why couldn’t I be like other people? Why was I forced to have this existence? Why?

  The train stopped hard, jolting my body. I looked up to find myself in a normal, packed subway car, full of New Yorkers going about their business. Everyone in their own worlds. If they only knew about mine.

  * * *

  I had no conception of how much time had passed. I did not remember I had an appointment. I did not know where I was going once I got off the R train. My feet just carried me, block after block.

  Standing at an intersection, I saw a woman waving wildly at me from across the street, yelling at me to cross even though traffic flew by. She waved and yelled, but no one else saw her. This was the woman who had been watching me for so long now. Patricia. The one who had been waiting.

  The light changed, and I ran across the street to her, though she also ran, toward a huge stone building. I stopped and stared. The old Bellevue insane asylum, now a homeless shelter. Dead, twisted vines crawled up the stone and broken brick, as though massive tree roots stretched upward to cover the entire building. I saw Patricia disappear inside, and I could not follow. I knew I should, I knew I needed to see where she was leading me, but I couldn’t do it. I stood on the sidewalk, at war with myself, feeling like one of the schizophrenics who used to call this horrific building home.

  I stared up at the fortress and saw the torn curtains in one window swing open and that same old wooden wheelchair roll into view. And I saw myself strapped into it. The tall man in black I had seen in the tunnel was pushing me.

  “We’re waiting for you, Jackie,” he bellowed. His face was covered with a mask that completely covered his head in black. A white circle went around the edges of where his face must be, and a white cross went through the middle of that. The sign of the zodiac. On the street below, I could hear him start to laugh. “Accept your inheritance and come forward. Don’t you want to play? It’s not over until I say it is.”

  * * *

  I lay in bed, safe in my own house, wondering what awaited me today. I had not recovered from yesterday’s train ride to hell, and I knew it wouldn’t be my last contact with that horrible tall man in black. Traveling through different dimensions was as easy for me as walking to the drugstore, but I’d always been able to control that pathway before. I had built it, after all, and I thought it was mine to travel according to my own will. Now I was being shown otherwise.

  I knew what was happening to me. I was no stranger to the signs of possession. Lost souls had always lived alongside me. But now this one was within me. I was being pursued and taken over. I was getting beaten up from within. Two souls cannot share one body for more than a short period of time. If they do, the person whose body it is can be irreparably harmed. It can cause severe psychiatric problems like split personality or psychosis.

  Just how long can the human body keep this up? I asked myself. A voice I did not recognize answered me.

  “For as long as we want.”

  I laughed. There was little else I could do. There were now squatters sharing my soul.

  I did not know how much time passed, but the voices quieted, and then my two cats were with me, affectionately rubbing my face. I closed my eyes and felt the vibration of their purring. Such a normal experience. A wonderful, beautifully normal experience. I filled with joy as I tossed back the covers and went into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I told myself in the mirror how wonderful it was to be back in my own body with my own thoughts.

  I followed my girls to the kitchen, where they demanded breakfast. I poured bowls of their favorite food and fresh water and then put on the coffee for myself. I hummed as I got my favorite stained and chipped cup out of the cabinet. I loved this old cup. Older is always better. I have learned the hard way that you can’t wash history away. Better to accept it—stains, chips, and all.

  I still had trouble believing that this perfect normalness was real. I couldn’t resist peeking over my shoulder as I poured my first cup. I blew the steam off the top and leaned against the counter, smiling as my two girls devoured their food. Then a cold breeze slipped by me like a thief trying to sneak in unnoticed. The air in front of me bent into a crooked wave. The cats began to hiss and fight, which they never did. Then they ran for cover as the sound of knocking came from the front door.

  The first one was gentle, as if a child were on the other side. I moved cautiously toward the door, which was solid oak in a reinforced frame. The next knock was a ringing clap, the sound of a sledgehammer hitting metal. I thought the door would shatter as I crept closer and looked through the peephole.

  An older lady stood smiling at me. “Good morning, dear,” she said in a sweet voice.

  “Please go away,” I said, shaking and sweating on the other side of the door.

  “I’m spreading the word of God, you know. He knows you’re in need.”

  I looked through the peephole again and she met me there, her eye looking right back at mine. “Jesus loves you, oh yes, he does.”

  Tears rolled down my face. How I needed to hear those words. I managed to ask her name.

  “Why, my name is Sally,” she said. “I just want to give you this pamphlet. It may just save you. He sent me right to your door.” She shook the paper at me, knowing I was still watching behind the door. “My child, I have more to fear than you—a little ole gal like myself spreading the Good Word.”

  I straightened my clothing and tried to get the courage to open the door. Sally continued to talk in that beautiful voice. “Jesus loves you, yes, he does, ’cause the Bible says he does . . .”

  I froze. The phrase was wrong. Such a simple one to know, and it was off. Demons never got it right. I flung open the door and stepped outside—wanting to confront her, wanting someone solid I could grab and demand an answer from for everything that was going on. There was no one there. Her pamphlet was stuck on the door. I ripped it off and tore through the empty pages until I got to the last one. In red crayon, scrawled like a child had written it, were the words, “Stay dead. Stay dead.”

  I knew then I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t just go back inside and be safe. So I decided to walk right into it, whatever it was.

  I turned and walked out my front gate and into a great space, enclosed in darkness. Then the lights came on, big fluorescent ones, one at a time. It was another tunnel, lined with mirrors. The light bounced everywhere, and I moved farther in, pushing on the mirrored walls with the hope of finding a door that would lead me back to my own world. Then I heard the keys.

  Jingling keys and a rolling cart. One wall of mirrors became transparent, and through it I could see a nurse with grayish-brown hair and chipped teeth as brown as wood, pushing that cart down a pitiful hallway of dingy green paint and water stains. I no
ticed that the cart was full of medications, and the hallway was full of locked doors. I followed her along on my side of the mirrors as she screamed at the people who must be behind those doors. She stopped and unlocked door number 7, then turned and looked in my direction.

  I was still on my side of the mirror, frozen in place. I squeezed my eyes shut and hoped the nurse couldn’t see me. I peeked, which always gets me into trouble. I should know better by now, but honestly, every time I really have no choice. When I looked, I saw that the woman stood staring at me; then she smirked and followed my gaze down to her name tag.

  “Ha. Yeah, that’s my name. Nurse Sally to you.” Her smirk stayed in place. “Oh dear, and you thought Jesus loved you.”

  She started to laugh, but she suddenly had a man’s voice. She turned and went into room 7, her man’s voice trailing after her. “Keep going, Jackie. You came for a reason.”

  That was it. I panicked, running from mirror to mirror but seeing only tragedy and pain. I heard something coming toward me, again from the other side. It was the old wooden wheelchair, coming to collect what was left of me.

  But I wasn’t the one strapped to it this time. Another woman sat there in a ripped and filthy hospital gown. She pushed back her matted hair and shamefully pulled her torn gown together to cover her exposed breast. We stared at each other, and she slowly put her hand out as though she could touch me. I did the same. I saw a hospital ID band around her wrist. To my surprise, there was an identical one around my wrist as well.

  As our hands touched, I felt her sorrow crash through the mirror and into me. Shards of pain pierced my chest like razor-sharp teeth, plunging deep into my flesh. I closed my eyes and tried to take her agony. Her childlike whimpers became shrieking screams. They suddenly stopped, and I peeked—again. The wheelchair lay on its side, wheels spinning and covered in blood. Instead of the woman in the hospital gown’s hand, through the mirror I touched the hand of the tall man in black. He was able to grasp me fully, tightly.

  “You see me, Jackie, and feel me. Can you feel my power? I am god, I am the fire in hell . . . I’m the reason little boys and girls look under their beds . . . I am seeping into you, every pore of your flesh will reek of me, for I am the Gemini. I am the Two . . .”

  I wrenched my hand away and ran. The mirrors started to dissolve, exposing that other side. I was running for my life. I could not let myself get stuck in hell. I ran. He yelled my name. I slipped and fell in a puddle and scrambled up. I could see home.

  I ran through my front gate and found my front door wide open. I ran into my bathroom and locked the door behind me before I looked down at myself. I was covered in blood. I ripped off my pajamas, panting in fear. I was under attack, and I couldn’t breathe. I grabbed a washcloth and began frantically scrubbing my arms and legs with soap and hot water.

  After a while, I looked around my bathroom, puzzled and confused. My skin was raw from scrubbing with the washcloth, but there was no blood anywhere. The door was still locked, but now I could hear my cats right outside, meowing hungrily. I threw open the door and stomped into the kitchen. The coffee pot was off, and their food bowls were empty. How was this possible? I had done all of this already. I was on the verge of losing it.

  “What do you want? What is it?” I yelled, waving my arms in the air. The room began to spin out of control. Or maybe it was just me. This tall man in black said he was the Gemini, that the astrological sign lived and breathed somehow. I knew that now. And he was after me. If I was the one who always helps others, who would save me? The room spun faster. I yelled for God, but that man answered.

  “Now, open the door and let’s play fair.”

  I wouldn’t. I couldn’t open my front door again.

  “Jackie, I will blow this door in. Here I come. You can’t run. You’re in me. Open the fucking door!”

  I screamed and sat up in bed. Wracked with pain, I leaned over the side and began to vomit. The whole thing had been a vision. My husband rushed in.

  “What’s wrong?” Will looked worriedly at the soiled floor and me huddled in pain. I asked him what time it was. “It’s 7:30 a.m.,” he answered. “I was going to let you sleep. It seems like you’ve been out working all night. Where were you?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  He asked if the doorbell had awoken me. I stared at him. Who was there?

  “Just some old lady spreading the Good Word, I guess. You know, all the Lord stuff.”

  I exploded. “You didn’t let her in, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t,” he said, trying to calm me. “Come on. I’ll get you some coffee.”

  More coffee. My God. I could no longer distinguish between what was real and what was not. My waking hours and my dreams were intertwining. And there was nothing I could do to stop it.

  God help me.

  FOUR

  Just like any other kind of business, my psychic profession includes paperwork, filing, scheduling, and lots of other logistical duties. These things are, shall we say, not my areas of expertise. So I have an assistant who performs wondrous feats—like finding room on my calendar for all the clients who want to see me, booking the right travel arrangements, and scheduling my television and radio appearances. She is the first person anyone talks to when they try to reach me. She is my right hand, and I would never get any work done without her.

  But the absolutely best thing about her? She’s my daughter, Joanne. I am so lucky to get to work with her every day. And as I sat and thought about my recent visions, I knew she was just the one to help me with my latest project. We needed to figure out who Patricia Fonti was. Joanne tracks and monitors all of the paperwork for my cold cases, homicides no one has been able to solve, and she knows how important they are—she prioritizes homicide and missing-person cases when she does my scheduling. For Patricia’s case, all I knew, from that headline in the newspaper that had drifted through the subway in my vision, was that she had been found dead at age thirty-nine on August 10, 1992. That seemed enough to start with, so Joanne and I sat down at the computer and started searching the Internet.

  Patricia Fonti’s name didn’t show up in any of the usual places. No obituary. No name included in a list of local award honorees, or club members, or any of the places you can usually find some mention of a person. We couldn’t even find any stories from 1992 about her death. Talk about a cold case! But then her name finally popped up—on a list of victims attributed to the New York Zodiac Killer.

  Well, shit, I thought.

  That discovery led Joanne and me in a whole different direction. And we slowly began to piece together the story of the hunt for one of New York’s most infamous serial killers.

  * * *

  Not much scares New Yorkers. Certainly not back in the 1980s and 1990s, when the city saw more than two thousand murders a year, along with rampant assaults and drug dealing. It took a lot back then for a criminal to rise above the ordinary horribleness of the crime wave. But one person managed to do it, with a combination of shootings, symbols, and carefully stoked terror.

  The killer started with a letter, sent to police at the end of 1989, insinuating that deaths would come the next year and would be linked to the zodiac signs. Four months later, early on a Thursday in March 1990, a forty-nine-year-old man named Mario Orozco, who had a limp and used a cane, was shot in the back while walking along a Brooklyn street. He did not die, but neither had he seen the shooter, so he couldn’t give police a description.

  Exactly three weeks later, again in the early hours of a Thursday, another man was shot in the back, only six blocks away from the first one. Jermaine Montenesdro was thirty-three years old. He also survived, but like Mario Orozco, he was unable to describe his attacker. The next shooting came two months later, just after midnight on a Thursday morning, this time in Queens. A seventy-eight-year-old man named Joseph Proce, who—like Mario Orozco—was using a cane to w
alk down the street, was approached by a man who asked him for a glass of water. Joseph started to walk away and was shot in the back. The man fled but left a letter decorated with astrological symbols nearby. Before dying of his injuries, Joseph gave police a description of his attacker as a disheveled black man in his early thirties, roughly six feet tall and about 180 pounds.

  The next week, the killer sent letters to the New York Post and TV’s 60 Minutes naming all three victims and providing details of the shootings that only he would know. Detectives concluded that the handwriting on those letters matched the letter left by Joseph’s attacker, and officially linked all three crimes.

  Knowing that his letters to the media now had the cops looking for someone in the Brooklyn-Queens border area, for his next shooting, the killer traveled farther afield. He couldn’t change the rest of his pattern, though. He stuck with his preference for attacking the weak and helpless, this time shooting Larry Parham, a thirty-year-old homeless man asleep on a bench in Central Park, early on a Thursday morning exactly three weeks after his previous attack, and again leaving a letter with astrological drawings nearby. This letter had a fingerprint on it, which police carefully recorded.

  Larry Parham survived the shot to the chest and was able to tell the police that someone had asked for his birth date several hours before he was shot. Larry’s description of the man matched the one Joseph had given three weeks earlier. For the next six years, this would be the only physical description that existed of the man police were now calling the Zodiac Killer.

  So far, the killer had shot a Scorpio, a Gemini, a Taurus, and a Cancer. And he had electrified the city. People walked around in a panic. Police warned everyone to immediately report any strangers asking for their birth dates. They could not figure out how the shooter knew the signs of the first three victims. They tried in vain to link the gunman’s four targets, but no connection among them was ever found. It appeared that the Zodiac struck at random, or at least did not personally know his victims beforehand, and seemed to possess knowledge he should have no way of knowing—the most terrifying combination a serial killer could have.